Chapter 1: Wrong Body, Wrong Time
POV: Adam/Pavel
The canvas ceiling swayed above him like a yellowed, water-stained sky. Adam's eyes tracked the gentle movement, his mind sluggish, grasping for memories that felt foreign and familiar at once. The scent hit him first—unwashed wool, leather oil, and something sharp that made his nostrils burn. Gunpowder. Or maybe sulfur.
"This isn't my room."
The thought crystallized with terrifying clarity. His hands—calloused, scarred across the knuckles—weren't his hands. The body beneath rough wool blankets was too lean, too angular. When he tried to sit up, muscles protested in ways that spoke of recent hard labor, not the soft academic life he remembered.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck no."
A snore rumbled from the bedroll beside him. Adam's head snapped toward the sound, and his breath caught. The face was young, maybe twenty, with the kind of sharp Slavic features he'd seen in period dramas. Dark hair, pale skin, a small scar through one eyebrow.
"That's Mal. That's fucking Mal Oretsev."
The name surfaced from somewhere deep, along with flashes of Netflix episodes and late-night binge sessions. The tracker. Alina's childhood friend. Which meant—
"No. No no no no no."
Adam scrambled upright, the blanket falling away. His reflection caught in a piece of polished metal hanging from the tent pole. Unfamiliar brown eyes stared back, set in a face that was pleasant but utterly unremarkable. Dark blonde hair hung limply to his shoulders. Pavel Kozlov, his mind supplied without his permission. Cartographer's assistant. Nobody important.
"Transmigration. I've been fucking transmigrated."
The tent flap rustled, and a man with graying temples ducked inside. His uniform was military, First Army by the cut, with sergeant's stripes on his sleeve.
"Up, you lazy dogs!" Sergeant Yure's voice cracked like a whip. "Drills in ten minutes. Move!"
Mal groaned and rolled over, one eye cracking open. "Morning already, Sarge?"
"Morning was two hours ago. Now it's afternoon, and you're late." Yure's gaze swept to Adam, who sat frozen in his bedroll. "Kozlov, you look like death. You sick?"
Adam opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to scream that this was impossible—
"Dancing bears love moonlight!"
The words burst out of him in a cheerful sing-song voice that belonged to someone else entirely. Adam clapped both hands over his mouth, horror flooding his system.
Mal blinked. "What?"
Sergeant Yure's expression shifted from irritation to concern. "Kozlov, what the hell did you just say?"
"I can't control what I'm saying. There's something wrong with my speech."
Adam tried again, focusing on forming simple words: "I need help."
"Pastries make excellent helmets during thunderstorms!"
Mal sat up fully now, studying Adam with the intensity of someone cataloging symptoms. "Pavel, did you hit your head yesterday? During the supply run?"
"Pavel. That's who I am now. And I can't tell them what's really happening."
Adam nodded frantically, seizing on the excuse. Maybe a head injury would explain the gibberish pouring from his mouth. He tried to say 'yes,' to confirm the story.
"Seventeen purple elephants are plotting against Tuesday!"
Sergeant Yure muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. "Get dressed, both of you. Kozlov, report to the medical tent after drills. Can't have you babbling nonsense if we encounter any Grisha."
The sergeant left, and Mal continued to stare at Adam with growing concern. "Pavel, seriously. Do you remember anything from yesterday?"
"I remember Netflix and my apartment and dying in a car crash. I remember being someone else entirely."
Adam focused all his willpower on producing one sensible word: "Some."
"Butterflies whisper secrets to sleeping cucumbers!"
Mal's expression shifted to something between worry and barely suppressed laughter. "Right. Medical tent it is."
As Mal began pulling on his boots, Adam became aware of something else—a presence at the edge of his consciousness, like a headache that hadn't quite formed. The sensation pulsed, grew stronger, and suddenly the tent around him seemed to shimmer.
[OTKAZAT'SYA'S GAMBIT SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[HOST INTEGRATION: 97% COMPLETE]
[TUTORIAL MODE: ACTIVE]
The text blazed across his vision in bold letters, visible and solid as the tent walls but translucent enough that he could see through them. Adam jerked backward, and Mal looked up from lacing his boots.
"You alright?"
"He can't see it. The system is invisible to everyone else."
Adam nodded, not trusting his voice. The text continued scrolling:
[WELCOME, HOST]
[CURRENT LOCATION: RAVKAN MILITARY CAMP, KRIBIRSK]
[BODY: PAVEL KOZLOV, CARTOGRAPHER'S ASSISTANT]
[WARNING: SPEECH LIMITATION CURSE ACTIVE]
[REASON: NARRATIVE BALANCE PROTOCOL]
"Narrative balance? What the hell does that mean?"
[CURRENT STATS:]
[STRENGTH: 3]
[AGILITY: 4]
[ENDURANCE: 3]
[INTELLIGENCE: 5]
[CHARISMA: 4]
[LUCK: 2]
[RESISTANCE: 7]
The numbers hung in the air like accusations. Adam had always considered himself reasonably capable, but seeing his life reduced to single digits was sobering. The Resistance stat stood out—higher than the others, though he had no idea what it measured.
[SKILL STATUS:]
[[NULLIFY] - LOCKED]
[REQUIREMENT: 100 EXPERIENCE POINTS]
[CURRENT EXP: 0]
"Experience points. Of course. It's a fucking game system."
Mal finished with his boots and stood, still watching Adam with that concerned tracker's gaze. "Come on, let's get you some food. Maybe your brain will start working again."
As they moved toward the tent flap, Adam felt it—a subtle warmth spreading through his chest, like standing near a campfire. The sensation was pleasant, almost addictive.
[PROXIMITY BONUS ACTIVATED]
[GRISHA-CRAFTED TENT DETECTED]
[+5 EXP GAINED]
[CURRENT EXP: 5/100]
"Grisha-crafted? The tent?"
Adam's gaze swept the interior with new eyes. The fabric was too perfect, too uniform in its weave. The support poles gleamed with an inner light that had nothing to do with polish. This wasn't just a tent—it was magical.
"Pavel? You coming?"
Mal held the tent flap open, morning sunlight streaming past him. Beyond, Adam could see other soldiers moving through their routines, and in the distance, figures in brightly colored coats. Grisha. The magical elite of Ravka.
"I'm in the Shadow and Bone universe. There are volcra in the Fold. Alina is going to cross soon, and everything is going to go to hell."
The knowledge sat in his stomach like a stone. He tried to warn Mal, to explain about the coming disaster:
"Lavender unicorns are practicing interpretive dance!"
Mal sighed. "Right. Medical tent. Definitely."
As they stepped outside, another system message appeared:
[FIRST QUEST GENERATED]
[SURVIVE FIRST DAY]
[REWARD: 50 EXP]
[FAILURE CONDITION: DEATH]
[TIME LIMIT: 24 HOURS]
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of cooking fires and horse leather. Around them, the camp buzzed with activity—soldiers cleaning weapons, hauling supplies, practicing formations. It looked exactly like the show, but the smells and sounds were overwhelming in their reality.
"This is real. This is actually happening."
Adam followed Mal toward what he assumed was the mess area, the system's presence a constant hum in the back of his mind. Fifty experience points for surviving one day. It sounded easy enough.
But in the distance, he could see the dark line on the horizon that could only be one thing: the Shadow Fold. The Un-Sea. Home to creatures that fed on human flesh and fear.
"Survive the prologue," he thought, remembering fragments of online discussions about story structures and narrative beats. "In this world, the prologue is about to get very, very dangerous."
The system seemed to read his thoughts:
[TUTORIAL PHASE ENDING IN: 72 HOURS]
[WARNING: PERMANENT DEATH ENABLED AFTER TUTORIAL]
[SURVIVE THE PROLOGUE]
+1 CHAPTER AFTER EVERY 3 REVIEWS
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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